Sick Of It

I’m sick of the way you smile at me,
softly,
like you can’t see what it does to me,
lazily leaning against the table with a tempting glance,
just a flicker of fantastical torture from the eyes that have owned me since the moment we met…
I’m sick of it.

I’m sick of the way your laughter fills the room,
finding me wherever I am,
wrapping around me like a whirlwind,
pulling me from the world, into your prison of passion.

Who gave you the right?
Who said it was alright to monopolise my mind?
Grey and gold goddess,
old enough to know better,
but still playing with me,
meeting me in a midsummer night’s dream,
making a mockery of my carefully curated “cool girl” image,
until I am a mess,
monologuing about you in the moonlight.

The audacity of your aesthetic is galling,
and I’m falling,
swooning and seething that you believe you can just… do this????
A pox on your house,
(which will become my house too, by any means necessary),
everything is enchanted by you.
I see your stain everywhere,
and grow increasingly insane,
whispering your name,
enchanted and annoyed.

I’m sick,
and seduced,
and I love it.